Tell Your Story Now
by Miroslav
Summary: Eric accidentally goes to a gay bar, accidentally goes on a date, and then accidentally outs himself to Mr. Feeny.  Okay, maybe the last one isn't entirely accidental.   Eric/OMC, written for queer fest.


**ERIC:** I feel this is the right move for me. You know, New York City. Nobody knows me there, I could be anybody I want to be.

**TOPANGA:** I want you to be Eric.

**-**7x23 "Brave New World"

* * *

><p>It takes Eric about three seconds to know that he loves New York City.<p>

It takes another month to figure out moving in with Cory wasn't the best idea he's ever had.

"I think we should have another vote on the mandatory pants rule," Eric says. It's the beginning of July, humid and awful—his jeans keep sticking to his skin, and the apartment's air conditioner is making a low, sad whine like it's about to spontaneously combust at any second.

"No," Shawn says firmly. He half-covers his eyes like he expects Eric to ignore him and take off his pants right there, which, while tempting, Eric isn't going to do. He does have _some_dignity, after all. Plus, he isn't wearing underwear, and even he can see why going without pants _and_boxers might be a problem.

Topanga, sitting with her legs curled under her on the fold-out couch that doubles for Eric's bed, doesn't even glance up from her book. "The pants rule remains in effect until further notice," she says.

"But-" Eric begins, casting a hopeful glance at Cory, who's flushed from the heat and miserable. Brotherly bonds! Surely Cory will side with him.

"Nope," Cory says, and shrugs, making a face at him that could be either _sorry, can't side against the wife if I want some knick-knick later_or_ugh, I am trying not to picture you without pants right now_.

"You guys suck," Eric grumbles. "It is too hot for pants."

"When I married Cory, I agreed to cherish him and let him get to third base every once in a while," Topanga says. "Seeing your hairy legs and Spiderman boxers was not part of the bargain."

"It's too _hot_," Eric repeats. He's whining, he knows. He doesn't really care.

"Go out," Shawn suggests. "Any place in the city will have better air-conditioning. Trust me."

Eric can't really argue with that, especially when the air-conditioner chooses that moment to screech like someone's stabbed it.

"There was a…bar a few blocks down that looked cool," he says after a moment. He awkwardly trips over the word 'bar' like he always does around Shawn. Sure, Shawn says that he doesn't mind hearing about or seeing other people drink, but it still feels awkward when Eric does, like Eric's dangling an apple in front of Eve. Or, you know, a beer in front of an alcoholic.

"Sounds good," Cory says, too brightly. "See you later, o brother of mine. Drink and be merry!"

"Aw, Cory," Topanga says, smiling at him. "You almost quoted something literary!"

Cory beams even as Shawn laughs and mutters, "_Almost_ being the key word."

Even as Cory and Shawn begin their normal friendly bickering, voices low and animated, Eric heads into Shawn's room to put on some boxers and change into some non-sweaty jeans. He might not have his own room, but at least he gets half of Shawn's storage space.

By the time he comes back out, Shawn and Cory are wrestling on the ground and Topanga is perched on the couch's armrest, watching with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. Her book's been temporarily abandoned.

"Have a good time, Eric," she says, giving him a quick smile, and then shakes a finger and cries, "Foul! No hair-pulling, you two!"

The Looking Glass is slow when Eric enters. There are a few people in the back, sharing a pitcher of beer, and one guy swaying drunkenly to the music, but otherwise the place seems empty. He's a little surprised. Every time he's passed it, the place has been packed. Then again, it _is_a Thursday, and still early.

He wanders over to where the bartender is polishing glasses. She's a small Asian woman, with red-streaked dark hair, freckles, and about four piercings per ear. "You're new," she comments. The stud in her tongue flashes in the light as she grins.

Jack would interrupt now, make some attempt at smoothness that would either make the woman laugh or roll her eyes. Eric just grins. The woman's pretty, but it's too hot to flirt.

"Moved here a month ago," he says, and offers her his hand. "I'm Eric."

"I'm Cindy," she says. Her nails match her hair, a brilliant crimson shade. "What's your poison?"

"Something cold," Eric says immediately. Maybe he's picked up a few things from Jack because Cindy laughs and looks sympathetic.

"Yeah, it's awful out there," she agrees. "I'm going to need something more specific, though- unless you want a glass of ice or something."

"No, a Corona would be good," he says, though a glass of ice cubes does sound awfully appealing.

A minute later, Cindy nudges a Corona across the counter to him. "Welcome to New York," she says. She sounds like she means it.

"Thanks," he says. The first cold sip of beer is amazing. He gets distracted, savoring the chill, and by the time he thinks to look up from his now half-empty beer, Cindy is already greeting another customer. Oh well.

He's still nursing that same drink when someone sits next to him.

"God, it's hot," the guy mutters, half-slumping on the bar stool like he's about to fall over from a heat stroke. He looks like he's just stepped out of a courtroom, dressed in a sharp black suit that probably costs more than the contents of Eric's bank account (not that that's hard, because his bank account has about forty dollars in it, give or take).

The guy loosens his tie and says in a thick Southern drawl, "Cindy, get me a gin and tonic? Please?"

"You know, Tim, if you didn't wear those three-piece suits, you wouldn't be dying in this heat," Cindy says, wrinkling her nose at him.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, down with the Man and suits are the uniforms of the Establishment, etc, etc. But the shocking thing is, I happen to _like_my job," Tim says - in a tone that makes Eric think this is an old, comfortable argument - and bats his eyes at her hopefully. "So, that gin and tonic. You can leave out the tonic part if you want."

Cindy shakes her head, her lips pressed tightly together like she's fighting a smile. "Gin and tonic, coming right up," she says. She catches Eric's eye and grins. "Don't let Tim fool you," she tells him. "He's fighting the Man. He's just undercover, taking the system down from within. …Plus, he really does love his suits."

"I just look so pretty in them," Tim says, and then sighs in relief when Cindy hands him a glass. "Thank you, darling." He lifts the glass, presses it briefly against his forehead. Sighing again, he lowers the glass and takes a long, lingering drink from it.

"Let me know if you want another," Cindy says, and then goes off to replace someone's drink.

Tim turns and grins at Eric. "Another member of the anti-Establishment, I presume?" he asks.

Eric is suddenly very aware he's wearing jeans and a faded T-shirt with John Adams High printed across the chest. He also hasn't shaved since his last job interview, which was two days ago. He rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. "Uh, not really. I'd totally sell out if it means getting to wear a nice suit like that, though." He's joking, mostly. It'd be nice to be able to afford a suit, but he can't imagine himself wearing a tie to work. Well, maybe if it was one of those clip-on ties. Did they let you wear clip-on ties when you were a lawyer or bank manager or corporate somebody?

Tim claps his hand on Eric's shoulder. "I think I've found the only person in this bar Cindy hasn't corrupted," he says. "Do you…." He lowers his voice, darts a cautious glance Cindy's way. "…eat meat?" he finishes in a hushed whisper.

"I love meat," Eric says, maybe a little too loudly, because Cindy glances their way and smirks at them. His stomach twists, and he realizes he hasn't had dinner. "Man, now I want a burger. Does this place have hamburgers?"

"Do vegan burgers count?"

"No," Eric says firmly.

"Then no," Tim says. The corners of his eyes crinkle as Eric groans. "There is a great restaurant, Le Petit Chef, down the street, though. Best hamburgers in the city. You should check it out."

"I will," Eric says. Maybe Cory will even like the place. They still haven't found New York's version of Chubbie's.

"Eric's new in town, Tim. Maybe you should show him around," Cindy says, reappearing so suddenly that Eric jumps a little, his Corona spilling onto the counter and his fingers. Cindy doesn't seem to notice, her gaze steady on Tim.

Tim, to Eric's surprise, flushes a deep red that turns even the tips of his ears pink. He grips his gin and tonic so tightly that his knuckles go white. "Stop it, Cynthia," he says, almost under his breath.

Cindy shoots him a wide-eyed look. "What? You know the best places and-"

"He doesn't have to show me around," Eric says quickly, because Tim looks halfway to a heart attack. "I found this place on my own, didn't I?"

Cindy grins at him, but before she can speak, Tim interrupts.

"And he'd probably like to enjoy his drink in peace," he mutters.

Cindy holds her hands up in surrender. "I was just making a suggestion. Tim doesn't get out much." She says the final part in an aside to Eric as Tim rolls his eyes.

"Yes, I am a total loner," Tim agrees tonelessly. "That's why I'm here drinking instead of being alone at home with my three cats."

"You have cats?" Eric asks.

Tim stares at him for a second, and then shakes his head.

The atmosphere's getting pretty uncomfortable. Tim and Cindy are obviously arguing about something, but Eric can't figure it out. Maybe they're exes? Eric goes to take another swallow of his beer, and then realizes it's empty.

"Uh, you know what, I think I'll go try that place you mentioned," he says, fishing out his wallet and pulling out a couple of bills. "The Petit Chef, right?"

Tim sighs. "You don't have to leave. Cindy is just-" He pauses, pinches the bridge of his nose. "I got out of a major relationship two months ago. Cindy here seems to think I need to start dating again."

"Okay," Eric says slowly. He's not sure how Tim showing him around the city is supposed to help Tim get a girlfriend. Maybe Cindy thinks he looks like a great wingman. "I'm still gonna go, though. Those burgers sound awesome."

The red is fading from Tim's face, but he's still frowning, so Eric shrugs and asks, "You want to come, show me the best burger on the menu?"

Tim hesitates, an odd look on his face. He wets his lips with his tongue. "Okay," he says after a moment, and then smiles a little. It's a small, crooked grin, quiet but pleased, and Eric finds himself grinning back.

"Have fun, you two," Cindy says, almost cooing. "Eric, it was great to meet you!"

Tim's ears are still pink as he forks over payment of his gin and tonic. Then he heaves himself upright. He's actually really tall now that he's standing and not slumped over from the heat.

"Do you ever hit your head?" Eric asks as he stands, curious. Tim shoots him a confused look. "Like when you're walking into a room-"

"Oh," Tim says, and chuckles. "Yeah, every once in a while. My mom actually threatened to make me wear a helmet after a bad growth spurt in high school." He raises his hand to his hair, like he's reliving a few memories of his head meeting a doorframe. Eric squints at Tim's forehead, but it's unmarked except for a few freckles.

"So, what brought you to New York?" Tim asks as they walk out of the bar. The corners of his eyes are crinkling again.

"Well, I just graduated, and when my brother's wife got an internship here, it seemed like the place to go. Start over, be who I've always wanted to be, you know?" Eric says.

"Yeah," Tim says softly. He's wearing that quiet, crooked smile again. "I do."

Eric shakes his head. "Moving in with them and Cory's best friend Shawn probably wasn't the best plan ever, though. Four to an apartment is…."

"Crowded?" Tim suggests when Eric trails off. He grins sympathetically. "I can ask around for you, see if anyone I know needs a roommate."

"That'd be awesome," Eric says, grinning. He pauses and sighs. "Though I should probably get a job first."

Tim tilts his head. "What are you interested in?"

"I'm not sure." Eric shrugs, a little embarrassed. Unlike Jack, Rachel, Topanga, and apparently Tim the lawyer or something equally impressive, he really doesn't know what he wants to do with his life. "I worked for the student union in college and I liked working at my dad's store, so maybe something with people."

"With people, huh," Tim says, smiling. It's not a mocking one, though, and Eric smiles back.

"I've always liked working with kids," he adds. "I just…I'm not very good at not getting involved. I worked as a Santa one Christmas and almost adopted a boy from an orphanage. Uh. Accidentally."

"You almost adopted an orphan. By accident," Tim echoes, squinting at Eric like he thinks Eric's joking.

"His name was Tommy," Eric says. "He's a great kid. He was adopted by an amazing family. They live in California." He doesn't say that Tommy's last letter was five months ago. Tommy's got a family now, after all, a family that doesn't include Eric, a family that can give Tommy everything Eric can't.

"Hey," Tim says quietly.

Eric blinks. He must have stopped walking, because Tim's got a hand on his elbow and is peering with concern into his face. His eyes are very blue. This close, it's impossible not to notice.

"Sorry, didn't mean to space out," he says, smiling apologetically.

"It's fine," Tim says. His hand drops away from Eric's arm. Eric misses the contact, a little. "I was going to suggest you try social work, but it sounds like that's not the best plan. What about teaching?"

"Teaching?" Eric repeats, blinking. "I'm not-" _Smart enough_, he's going to say, but Tim interrupts.

"A kindergarten or pre-school teacher, maybe. If you were interested in that sort of thing. You could do a part-time job, take some classes, get your certification," Tim says. "I have a friend who did the same thing. She teaches pre-school in Harlem now."

"That sounds…." Eric pauses. "Really cool, actually."

"Remind me to give you Anita's number once we're done eating," Tim says. "You can ask her all about it." He looks over Eric's shoulder and smiles. "We're here."

Le Petit Chef is a small, dimly lit restaurant, and a man immediately greets Tim with an exuberant, "Tim! I was beginning to think you'd dropped off the face of the earth, man." The guy's got a high, breathy voice.

"Not quite," Tim says. He looks at his feet for a second, and then adds, "Alex and I broke up a few months ago."

"Ooooh," the man says, drawing the sound out for a full ten seconds. He glances at Eric, expression full of friendly interest. "So this is-"

"Eric," Tim says hastily. "He just moved here. Eric, this is Henri."

"Nice to meet you," Eric says.

"Likewise," Henri says, and winks at him. He leans in close to Tim, whispers something that sounds like, "Give me the details later, okay?"

"We're starving," Tim says abruptly. "Could we get a table?"

"Right, right," Henri says, laughing. "Zipping my lips, man." He leads them to a table that's in the corner, away from the rest of the other people dining. "I'll get you some water, you two figure out what you want." He winks at Eric. "And don't forget to save room for dessert. We've got these couple desserts that are just perfect for first d-"

"_Henri_," Tim snaps, looking ready for throw up his hands. "Did Cindy call and give you a head's up that today is Embarrass the Hell Out of Tim Day?"

Henri blinks. "Tim, every day is Embarrass the Hell Out of Tim Day," he says matter-of-factly, like Tim should already know this. Eric grins a little as Tim groans.

"Go away, Henri," Tim says. When Henri laughs and complies, Tim turns to Eric with a flustered smile. "I'm sorry, my friends are…insane. And obnoxious. And-"

"Obviously care about you a lot," Eric says, grinning. "It's nice. I have friends like that, but they're in Africa right now." He misses Jack and Rachel then. Well, that's not right. He's always missing them- every day without them feels wrong, like he's wearing two left shoes, like somehow the world's tilted slightly on its axis. Right now, though, he misses them even more.

"Africa?"

"The Peace Corps," Eric explains. He fiddles with the silverware. "Jack grew up in New York City, actually. That's one of the reasons I thought New York would be a great place to live. Jack's great, so the city must be too, right?"

"Right," Tim agrees, smiling.

Eric turns the conversation on Tim then, asking him questions. Tim turns out to be a lawyer after all, a defense attorney. He was born and raised in Georgia, moved here for law school and never looked back. He doesn't actually like cats, but plans on having a dog or two once he gets up enough money to buy a house instead of renting an apartment. Aside from being in love with suits, he's also into jazz and basketball. He even coaches soccer in a teen outreach program on the weekends.

"You should come sometime," Tim says. He smiles again, open and a little hopeful. "The kids are great, and I promise I won't let you accidentally adopt one."

"Do I have to be any good at soccer?" Eric asks. "Because, uh, I'm not. If you needed someone to keep score, though, I could totally…learn how to do that. Each goal is one point, right?"

Tim laughs, and after a second, Eric laughs too.

The burgers turn out to be enormous _and_delicious, and yeah, Eric can already see Cory declaring this the new Chubbie's. He devours every bite, despite that around the fourth-to-the-last-bite his stomach starts protesting.

"Okay, I'm sorry, but I don't have any room for desert," Eric says when Henri shows up and dangles the desert menu in front of Tim. He catches sight of something chocolate-y and delicious on the menu and bites his lip.

"Are you sure? The Dark Chocolate Delight is _amazing_," Henri informs him. "And it's Tim's favorite!"

"Your favorite, huh?" Eric says, grinning across the table at Tim, who's starting to look flustered again. "How about we split one? I can take my piece home, eat it when I feel less like exploding."

"Now that's a lovely image," Tim says dryly, but he's grinning again. "One Dark Chocolate Delight it is."

After Tim has eaten his piece, Henri has presented Eric with a boxed slice of Dark Chocolate Delight, and the bill has been paid, Tim walks him to the door of the restaurant. "I could call you a cab," he suggests.

"I live two blocks over," Eric says. "I'll be fine."

"Oh, well…." Tim bites his lip, and ducks his head a little. He's a little too tall to pull off a bashful look, but his blue eyes flicker under his long, dark lashes. "I could walk with you?" he suggests in a tone of voice that….

Someone would use when they're walking their girlfriend home.

"Uh," Eric says. His brain seems to be seizing up, and he's not sure what his expression is right now, but whatever it is, it's earning him a confused and slightly alarmed look from Tim.

"I mean, you can say no," Tim says hastily. "I just thought maybe-"

"Was this a date?" Eric's voice wavers dangerously on the last word, and Tim grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck and shuffling his feet.

"No? I mean, I think Cindy and Henri wanted it to be, and yeah, I think you're interesting and funny and, um, not exactly unattractive, but I _did_just get out of a relationship, so I've been trying to take things slow. Let's call it a dinner with the potential for more. If you're interested, that is."

"You're _gay_?" Eric's voice really does crack this time.

Tim stares at him. "Yes?" he says, drawing out the word. He frowns. "Wait, why do you sound shocked? You were at the Looking Glass!"

"So?" Eric says.

"The Looking Glass is a gay bar," Tim says. When Eric gapes, Tim throws up his hands, voice rising in growing exasperation. "Cindy was wearing a shirt that said 'Yes, I Kiss Girls; No, You Can't Watch!' Was that not a clue? Also I mentioned _Alex_, my ex!"

"Alex can be a girl's name!" Eric says. "And I…didn't read Cindy's shirt." Plus, now that he thinks about it, those girls sitting in the back booth had been sitting very closely.

"Fuck," Tim says, in a low, angry snarl, and rubs a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, I just…apparently went on a semi-date with a straight guy. I have the shittiest luck in the world."

"I," Eric says and stops. "I'm sorry," he says, because he is, and Tim's looking miserable, and the whole thing had been really nice until Eric had ruined it. "I think you're really interesting too. I'm just-"

"Straight," Tim says, giving him a weak grin. "It's fine. It's cool. I'm sure we'll laugh about this in the future."

"No, that isn't what I was going to say," Eric says. "I-" He doesn't know what he was going to say, though. His brain is yelling at him, shouting stuff like how he hasn't dated seriously since high school, and that the last time he actually flirted without Jack egging him on was…well. A long time ago. He takes a deep breath, dizzy from a realization that's been in the back of his head since he'd figured out he was more interested in competing with Jack over Rachel than actually dating Rachel.

"I told Topanga something when I decided to come with her and Cory to New York," he says slowly, each word falling slow and awkward off his tongue. "I said to her, 'New York City. Nobody knows me there; I could be anybody I want to be.' I just- I don't know who that is."

"And you, what? Want me to help you figure it out?" Tim doesn't sound angry, just a little confused and slightly tired. "I'm not going to be your test-run on whether you like guys or not."

"I don't want you to be that," Eric says, still groping hopelessly for words, for what he actually means. "I just…I liked dinner. I think you're great and you have really blue eyes, has anyone ever told you that? And I think…if you give me your number, I'd like to call you. In a couple months. Once I've got my head on straight." He smiles weakly, feeling a little sick to his stomach, but also surprisingly okay, like his brain is relieved that he's not fighting this realization anymore.

"Um," Tim says, and is quiet for a moment. "Once you get your head on straight," he repeats softly, and then smiles. It's not that quiet, crooked one from earlier, but it's real and warm, and Eric tentatively smiles back. Tim pulls out a napkin and a pen, scribbles something on the napkin. "Here's my phone number, and Anita's. You really should talk to her about that teaching degree," he says, handing the napkin over.

Eric's hands are a little sweaty as he takes the napkin and tucks it away. "Thanks," he says, and is surprised when his voice comes out a little scratchy.

Tim just smiles back. "I'm going to head back to the Looking Glass. You…." Tim hesitates. "Take care," he says at last.

Eric goes home, only vaguely aware of the people he passes on the street. His head hurts, and his throat's dry, and the napkin in his pocket seems to weigh a thousand pounds. He feels a little like someone's punched him in the head.

When he lets himself into the apartment, Shawn's on the couch, writing something slowly into his notebook. "Hey, Eric," he says absently, not looking up from whatever he's writing.

"Hey," Eric says. He aims for normal, but must miss, because Shawn looks up and squints at him.

"You okay? You look a little…weird."

"I had a weird night," Eric says after a moment. "I think I'm going to go to bed, if that's okay."

"Sure," Shawn says, shutting his notebook and getting up from the couch. He gives Eric a friendly clap on the shoulder. "Cory and Topanga are out. I'll leave them a note on the door telling them you're asleep."

"Thanks," Eric says.

Once he's changed and has the pull-out bed ready, he sticks the napkin with Tim's number on it onto the fridge, where no one will touch it and where there's no way it'll get lost. Then he slides under the thin sheet, rests his head on the pillow. The air-conditioner groans quietly next to him, drowning out his thoughts.

He's grateful. He'll think about everything tomorrow, not tonight. He closes his eyes and doesn't think about anything- not his family's reaction, not the way Tim had looked at him, not the warm and reassuring weight of Tim's hand on his arm, not even the idea of becoming a teacher.

He closes his eyes, but despite himself, sleep's a long time coming.

* * *

><p>The thing is, Eric doesn't want to think about how Cory will react. He's not sure what possible reaction would be worst, honestly, Cory telling him that just because a gay guy hit on him doesn't mean <em>he's<em>gay, or Cory looking at him and going, "Well, I always knew you were weird."

Shawn and Topanga might be okay to tell, they're both open-minded, but they can't hide a secret from Cory. Not for long, anyway. He's definitely not ready to tell his parents, and Jack and Rachel are one super-expensive phone call and whole continent away.

In the end, really, there's only one person to call.

"MR. FEENY!" he calls into the phone as soon as it stops ringing.

"Hello, Mr. Matthews," a woman sighs. "I'll go get George. He's out gardening."

"Oh, sorry, Dean," he says.

A minute later, Mr. Feeny says, "Greetings, Mr. Matthews, I trust you-"

"MR. FEENY!" Eric yells, unable to help himself.

"Yes, Mr. Matthews, I'm here," Mr. Feeny says, sounding pained. "I trust you are settling in well?"

Eric knows Mr. Feeny will help, because Mr. Feeny is Mr. Feeny. He just needs to ask Mr. Feeny his advice. Eric realizes, gripping the phone with a sweaty hand, that he hasn't thought of what to say. "I….," he says slowly. "I wanted to ask you something."

"For the last time, Mr. Matthews, if you need the lyrics to 'New York, New York'-" Mr. Feeny says.

"No, not that," Eric says. His throat's tight again. "I met someone."

"Someone special, I take it," Mr. Feeny says when Eric doesn't continue. He sounds a little amused. "Might I know the young lady's name?"

"I-" Eric stares at the wall, blinking hard. Of course Mr. Feeny would ask about- would assume- but- "Actually, I've got to go," he says, and doesn't recognize his own voice. It sounds ragged and hoarse, like he's been yelling rather than just doing the Feeny call.

"Mr. Matthews, are you all right?" Mr. Feeny says.

It's probably rude to hang up on him, but that's what Eric does, his hands shaking. He takes a deep, desperate breath, then another. He's not really surprised when the phone rings.

"Mr. Matthews," Mr. Feeny says when Eric picks up after the fourth ring. His voice is quiet, with an edge of concern.

Eric's gaze falls upon the fridge, the bright white of Tim's napkin leaping out from among the dark green paint. He licks his lips, thinks about Tim's lopsided grin, how easy he'd been to talk to, the blue of the man's eyes.

"I met someone," he says again, and then takes a deep breath. "His name's Tim."

There is a long moment, where all Eric can hear is the pounding of his heart in his ears, and then Mr. Feeny clears his throat.

"Well, then. Why don't you tell me about him?" Mr. Feeny asks.

Eric, his eyes focused on Tim's spidery handwriting, does.


End file.
